account of this meeting made it into the case report. “Was Presley alone when he came to see you?”
“Yes. He gave me the creeps, that Presley. Always did.”
“Did anyone from the FBI question you about this?”
Mrs. Little says nothing, but not because she has nothing to tell.
“Mrs. Little, do you remember an FBI agent named Dwight Stone?”
“Well, actually … I do, yes. But that’s all I have to say. Good—”
“Please wait! Do you have any idea who your husband was with on that day? Which floozie, I mean? I know this is painful, but it’s terribly important. The faster I get to the bottom of this, the less chance anyone is going to get hurt.”
“I don’t like talking about this.” Her breaths are shallow, anxious. “If you get to the bottom of it, my ex-husband is going to come out of it smelling like a cowpie, isn’t he?”
“Probably.”
“Betty Lou Jackson.”
“Ma’am?”
“That’s the slut’s name. She’s married to some electrical contractor now. Beckham, her name is. Acts like she’s as good as anybody, but she’s a tramp through and through.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Little.”
“Don’t thank me, because I never told you anything.”
The phone goes dead.
The nice thing about small towns is that it’s easy to find people. Directory assistance has only one Beckham listed. I’m starting to feel like I might solve the Payton case without ever leaving the car.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice.
“Is this Betty Lou Beckham?”
“Yes. I don’t use the ‘Lou’ anymore, though. It’s just Betty. Betty Beckham. Who is this?”
“This is Penn Cage, Mrs. Beckham.”
Deafening silence.
“Mrs. Beckham?”
“I’m real busy right now, Mr.—”
“I just wanted to ask you a couple of quick questions.”
“I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to ask you.” Or do you?
“I saw the paper the other day.” Her voice is so tight that her vocal cords must be near to snapping. “It’s about that, isn’t it?”
“Mrs. Beckham, I realize this might be a delicate matter. I’d be glad to speak to you in person if you’d feel more comfortable.”
“Don’t you come around here! Somebody might see you.”
“Who are you worried would see me?”
“Anybody! Are you crazy?”
“Mrs. Beckham, I really only have one question. Were you in that parking lot when Del Payton’s car exploded?”
“Oh, my God. Oh, dear Jesus …”
“I have absolutely no interest in what you might have been doing there, Mrs. Beckham. I just want to know about the bombing.”
How stupid did that sound? If Betty Lou was doing what Mrs. Little suspected she was doing in that parking lot, it might end up on the network news.
“Don’t call back,” she pleads. “You’ll get me in bad trouble. Yourself too. You don’t know. You just don’t know!”
She’s hung up, but the fear in her voice was real enough to raise the hair on the back of my neck. She is afraid of more than memories. She’s been living in dread ever since Caitlin’s story ran in the paper.
As I turn into my parents’ neighbourhood, the cell phone rings. It’s Althea Payton.
“I tried to call you earlier, Althea, at the hospital. But you were busy.”
“I know. I got this number from your father.” She sounds out of breath. “I think I’ve remembered something important.”
“Take it easy. I’m not going anywhere. What is it?”
“I was visiting an adult patient this morning, and his TV was tuned to CNN. I really wasn’t paying attention, but then I heard your name. They were talking about that execution in Texas. How you were the lawyer who convicted that man.”
“Right …”
“They showed you walking into the prison. And then, right after that, they showed another man. They said he was the head of the FBI. I didn’t hear his name, but I watched again an hour later to see if they’d run the same thing, and they did.”
“I don’t understand, Althea. What did you remember?”
“I knew that man. Mr. Portman. John Portman.”
“You knew him? From where?”
“From here. Right here in Natchez.”
“You’ve seen John Portman in Natchez?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Remember I told you about Agent Stone? How he was nice and really wanted to help us?”
“Yes.”
“And I told you some of them didn’t. How Mr. Stone had another man with him, a young Yankee man, who was cold and never said anything?”
My chest feels hollow. “Yes …”
“That was him. That John Portman on the TV was him.”
“Althea, you must be mistaken. John Portman would have been very young in 1968.”
“It’s him, I tell you. His hair’s a little grayer, but that’s the only difference. The second time they ran the story, I watched close. Ain’t no doubt about it. It was him. A young Yankee man, cold as February. Chilled me right to the bone.”
Somewhere in my mind Dwight Stone is saying, I knew Portman. He came into the Bureau a few years before I got out …
“Don’t say anything else, Althea. I’m on a cell phone. I’m going to check on this and get back to you.”
“What do you think it means?”
“I don’t want to speculate. Don’t talk to anyone about this. I’ll get back to you.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
I hit End, then turn
